


Where Witness None

by Walutahanga



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kitsune, Mermaids, Mind Control, Selkies, Shapeshifting, Sirens, Were-Creatures, Werecats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walutahanga/pseuds/Walutahanga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Ariadne had been human, she might have taken the job. But selkies understand vulnerability too well to go meddling with the subconscious. </p><p>Cobb does not take no for an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Witness None

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate universe fic, where most of the Inception team are shape-shifters of one kind or another.

Supernaturals make the best dreamers.

Cobb tells Ariadne this matter-of-factly in the café.

“It’s to do with identity,” he says. “A human generally has a very fixed idea of themselves, while a supernatural – which usually have at least two forms – has a much more fluid view of matters. We can surrender to the dream much more easily."

His directness is shocking, taking Ariadne off-guard as he drives to the heart of the matter instead of circling around it as is customary. The supernatural community survives on it's ability to remain hidden from the oblivious human world, and discussing it openly in public is more taboo than discussing sexual kinks. 

It’s Ariadne’s first clue that the cafe might not be reality (it’s also her first clue that Cobb is past noticing things like caution or the most basic consideration of others’ wellbeing).

“Are all dreamers… like that?” She asks, attempting to match Cobb’s blasé approach and failing miserably. She’s too aware of the waiter projection watching them.

“Some. Not all. We’re pretty rare in any case. But the most talented dreamers – the very best ones – nine times out of ten they’re supernaturals.”

He doesn’t smile when he looks at her. Cobb rarely smiles. Looking into his blue eyes, she thinks of oceans on alien planets, empty of life.  

“I think you’ll make an excellent dreamer, Ariadne.”

* * *

Ariadne won’t lie; she’s tempted to take the job.

But Cobb’s projection of his dead wife (smelling of salt and tears like she just stepped form the sea) driving a knife into Ariadne’s gut is a hell of a wake up call. Literally and metaphorically.

 “I’m not just going to let you into my subconscious,” she snarls at Cobb as she storms out of the warehouse. Her fingers are shaking as she adjusts her scarf and no matter how beautiful the idea of endless creation, or how interesting the thought of working with other supernaturals, the dangers that come with it are too great.

If she hadn’t been what she is – if she’d just been human – she might have been able to look past it. But she is what she is, and she is all too aware of the vulnerabilities and traps of one’s own mind.

She goes home and once she has locked the door and checked all the windows, she opens up the safe in the back of her cupboard.

The soft brown fur is warm when she touches it, and it might just be the way her fingers move, but the folds of empty skin feel almost like they arc into her touch. The simple contact calms her, and she feels the other mind settling over her, gently overlapping like little wavelets.

_Swim?_

_Not now_ , she tells it fondly. She’d just needed to touch it, to reassure herself. _Later._

She sits there petting it for a while before her growling stomach reminds her she hasn’t eaten in several hours. She closes and locks the safe, and heads to the café around the corner. She doesn’t think about Dom Cobb or dreaming. It’s already been dismissed.

* * *

Back when she first started university, Ariadne had been pleasantly surprised to find a supernatural teaching one of her classes. Not that anyone else knew of course; humans are woefully bad at trusting their noses. 

But Ariadne and Professor Miles had looked at each other, tasted each other’s scent in the air, and nodded gravely in acknowledgement. That was all that was necessary. If Ariadne gave Miles’ lectures more complete attention than any other of her classes, and he looked out for her a little more than most of his undergrads, no one ever noticed.

“You are being careful, aren’t you,” he says oneday, apropos of nothing. They’re working on an assignment, going over her painstaking second-draft.

“Of course,” she says, touched by his concern.

“You’re a young girl living alone in Paris. Don’t be too trusting.”

Which for their kind means trust no one, and never absolutely.

Later, she thinks resentfully that he could have been more specific. Like trust other supernaturals even less than you trust humans, because while a human won’t know what weaknesses to look for, a supernatural will. 

Miles is the one to introduce her to Cobb. At the time she thought the resigned, worried look in his blue eyes was general concern. Later she’ll realise he suspected what would happen.

* * *

The night after storming out of the warehouse, she goes for drinks with friends. All human of course – there aren’t many of her kind in Paris, being more fond of coastal regions – and she’s a little tipsy when the taxi drops her off at her apartment building.  

She takes the elevator up, humming softly to herself as she hits the button. It had been a good night, with plenty of laughter, and she’s relaxed and a little buzzed. She thinks she’ll have a shower before she goes to bed.

Her apartment door is standing open.

The fuzziness sloughs away and Ariadne stares at the door for an awful moment. Time splinters and she’s trapped, trying to breathe through the panic. She doesn’t even think of the intruder still being there. She just lunges inside and heads straight for the cupboard.

The safe door is open.

Her skin is gone.

* * *

Cobb picks up after only one ring, which tells her he was expecting her call.

“Yes, Ariadne?”

“Where is it?” She hisses the words into the phone, panic and anger and outrage – _how dare he, how dare he violate something so personal_ – smashing her self-control to smithereens. “Where the hell did you put it?”

Cobb doesn’t bother to dissemble or deny.

“Somewhere safe.”

“Give it back. I need it.”

“No.”

That single word, that calm denial is like running into a brick wall. Somewhere deep inside Ariadne hadn’t expected Cobb to do this; some naïve part of her had thought that he was just trying to scare her, that he’d back off if she challenged him.

“Please, Cobb.” Her fingernails dig into her skirt. “It’s mine.” What she means is; _it’s me_.

“It’s safe,” Cobb says. “And well hidden. You can have it back after you build my dream.”

“I’m not building your damn dream. Just give me back my skin.”

“Ariadne.” Her name on his lips sends a shiver through her; a premonition of disaster in the split second before it hits. “I’m ordering you to build the dream.”

The order takes hold, wrapping close like a noose tightening about her throat. She resists, unable to quite believe this is happening, and the hold tightens, strangling her until dark spots swim in front of her eyes. Others before her have died instead of obeying – _“It’s a valid choice,”_ her mother told her matter of factly when she was fifteen. _“There is no shame in it.”_ – but as she draws closer to the edge of darkness, she realizes that she doesn’t want to die. Not yet.

The hold eases as she accepts the order, and she sucks in air, almost sobbing. Her face is wet.

“You’ll give me back my skin?” She says into the phone, and her voice is croaky.

“Yes.”

Cobb’s voice is even and matter of fact as when he’d denied her. She can’t tell if he’s lying. She has no choice but to believe him.

* * *

Arthur doesn’t seem surprised when she turns up at the warehouse. Cobb ordered her not to tell Arthur about their arrangement, so she has to wonder what Arthur thinks her reasons are. She gives him closer scrutiny than she did before, seeking out cracks in that smooth demeanor like a drowning woman clawing for air. 

He’s not human; that much she’d known from the first sniff. Had he been a lycan or a centaur, she could have been reasonably certain of getting help. Pack-oriented supernaturals tend to get along better with each other than they do solitary races, and most of them take particular offence to the victimisation of females, regardless of species.

But Arthur’s scent is alien and strange to her, matching no supernatural she’s never encountered. He has none of the distinct hint of brine, so he’s not ocean-bound like her and Cobb. A mammal, definitely, and a predator, going by the way his eyes track sudden movement as if unable to help himself. Ariadne’s mother and aunts always said to be wary of solitary predators; they’re not bound by the laws of the group, so you can never quite predict them.

Ariadne knows little of Arthur’s temperament and even less of his species, and has no way of knowing how he’d react to a plea for help. So she sticks to gathering information for the moment.

“I noticed that Mal was different,” she says while they’re in Arthur’s dream. This is how supernaturals normally talk about themselves, using words like ‘different’ and ‘unique’ as codifiers. Maybe she’s being silly, using the old euphemisms when they’re in a dream, but Cobb hadn’t, and she’s done copying Cobb in any way.

“Yes.” Arthur is leading her up a set of stairs to the fourth floor, to show her where he’s altered gravity in such a way that is not immediately obvious. “She was a different kind of person.”

Ariadne nods and, knowing she’s pushing the boundaries of propriety, says carefully:

“In the same way as Cobb?”

Arthur is silent long enough that she thinks she’s overstepped, but then he says:

“Not quite the same way. Related. Cobb’s a swimmer, she was a singer.”

‘Swimmer’ is a slang term for mermad, while ‘singer’ refers to their shore-bound cousin, the siren. The two species are bound by a history of wars, marriages, betrayals and alliances. Intermarriage is as frequent between them as blood feuds. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin for mermads and sirens, and Ariadne supposes she shouldn’t be surprised at Cobb’s conflicted subconscious regarding his wife.

“It must have been interesting, working with them,” she says.

“They worked together well enough – and they brought me enough work to keep me entertained.” Arthur shoots her a quick grin with too many teeth. The very definition of ‘wolfish’, but at the same time nothing like a wolf; Ariadne would never doubt a lycan’s code of honour.

She can’t help feeling begrudging admiration when Arthur scales a wall to demonstrate a point. His species, whatever it is, is far more attuned toward survival than her own. If she were a solitary animal, perhaps she also could be so fiercely independent, so coolly detached. 

* * *

Cobb returns with their client (a human), a forger (not human) and a chemist (questionable) 

“Working hard?” Cobb says to Ariadne.

“You know I am,” She says, a little bit of bite in her words, but the sarcasm doesn’t seem to register with him. He just says “good” and pats her shoulder vaguely as he walks past, as if she’s not even there. Ariadne’s not sure if that makes her feel more safe around him, or less so.

The client introduces himself politely as Saito and gives no indication that he has any idea that there’s anything unusual about them beyond their interest in shared dreaming. Ariadne concludes it’s not an act; even Cobb wouldn’t be so moronic as to tell a human about supernaturals, especially a human so well positioned to cause them harm.

When Saito excuses himself to make a phone call, the forger makes a beeline for Arthur and doesn’t stop until he’s well within the bubble of personal space Arthur holds about himself. Arthur holds his ground, though his lip curls slightly like he’d like to snarl but knows better.

“Arthur,” the forger says pleasantly. He’s a big man – more or less the same height as Arthur but broader about the shoulders – with an English accent and a self-possession that’s a little intimidating.

“Eames,” Arthur says evenly, and apparently it’s permission, because Eames steps even closer, so close his cheekbone is nearly bumping Arthur’s and breathes in. Then he smirks and says:

“Delicious as always.” His eyes rove the warehouse and go straight to Ariadne. “So this is our talented new architect. Let me look at you.”

‘Look’ apparently means ‘hold still while I smell you’. But Ariadne is well used to similar personal space invasions by aunts and cousins, and automatically reciprocates by pressing her nose into the side of his neck and inhaling deeply.

His scent is stronger than Arthur’s; pleasantly male and rather musky. Definitely supernatural, land-bound, and yet another species she doesn't recognise. It makes her sneeze and Eames laughs out loud, patting her cheek.

“Aren't you just precious.”

* * *

Later, Cobb takes Ariadne aside to speak with the chemist, whose name is Yusuf and has warm, kind demeanor like a doctor 

“So what are you?” He says. “Cat? Wolf? Swan? I’ll need to know your species to allow for my calculations.”

Ariadne looks to Cobb for help.

“You can tell him,” Cobb says, which releases the order of silence but does nothing about Ariadne’s own reservations.

“Don’t worry,” Yusuf reassures her. “There’s a lot of supernaturals in the dream business. You won’t be the first secret I keep.”

He seems completely sincere, and Ariadne wets her lips before saying:

“Selkie.”

Yusuf’s eyes light up.

“Like a seal?”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating. I’ve never worked with one before.”

“We’re reclusive.”

He asks a lot about her weight and reactions to certain chemicals, and is already sketching out plans for some initial testing when Cobb is called away by Saito to answer some questions.

Ariadne waits until he’s out of earshot before grabbing Yusuf’s arm.

“He has my skin," she says urgently. Yusuf stares at her startled, and she realises he has no idea what she’s talking about. “My skin, the one that lets me change. He took it.”

“That’s factual?” Yusuf smiles, interested. “I always thought that was a myth. Amazing.”

“Help me.” Ariadne says. “I have my families’ contact details. If you could contact them and let them know what’s happening–”

“And interfere with the job?” Yusuf shakes his head regretfully. “No offence, but I can’t afford to pass up this pay-off.”

Ariadne lets go of his arm and sinks back into her seat. She feels very small and stupid and unsafe.

“Cheer up,” Yusuf says. “Cobb’s not a bad man. I’m sure he’ll give it back eventually.”

With that, this friendly man – this talkative, gently spoken man who laughed with Eames and took such care inserting the needles – dismisses Ariadne’s freedom for a pay-off.

This is the moment she realises the type of people she’s fallen in with and how irrecoverably fucked she really is. 

* * *

After that, she works as much as she can near Arthur and Eames, mostly because they don’t know how helpless she is and consequently are the ones she feels the least-threatened around. An unknown vulnerability is less likely to be exploited than a known one.  

 _Less-threatened_ does not mean _safe,_ but she’ll take it, particularly when the illusion of safety allows her to focus on her work instead of delving into hysterics until that ever-present noose tightens in warning of disobedience.

Cobb doesn’t argue when she requests that Arthur be the one to instruct her in dreams. Arthur is a good teacher: patient and exacting, never balking at repeating lessons and good at explaining concepts.

“It’s odd,” he remarks at one stage, when they’re sitting on a re-crafting of the Trevy foundation, watching her projections pass by.

“What is?”

“Your projections.”

“They seem perfectly polite to me.”

“That’s what I mean. They barely seem to notice me, even when I change things in the dream. Look.” He turns the water of the fountain green. The projections carry on as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“That’s bad?”

“It could be. Your security’s not very good. Someone could break in.”

Ariadne turns away to watch the water. She doesn’t say that someone already has broken in and turned off the security system. This is her mind without her skin; passive and pliant and utterly exposed. Arthur could start shooting people left and right, and her projects probably wouldn't bat an eyelid. 

“We should work on that,” Arthur says. “After the job, see me and we’ll arrange some training.”

He says it naturally, as if it’s decided. 

* * *

Eames is all business in the dreams. He asks questions, gets her to walk him round the base half a dozen times, and even insists on conjuring up a helicopter so he can get a better idea of the landscape. He likes to know the terrain.

“Turn around,” he says suddenly.

“Why?” Ariadne says, bemused.

“Because I’m going to change, and I’d rather you not look.”

“I’ve seen you forge before.”

“Not forging, love. A change.”

“Oh!” She blushes, turns her back. There’s few things more personal than a change. Even though it’s not painful, it’s degrading and definitely unsightly. Even Ariadne’s cousins – loud and fierce and unbothered by nudity – will withdraw modestly behind a screen of rocks before starting that crucial process.

There’s faint thump behind her, a scrabbling in the snow as a new weight distribution is accounted for, then something wet and cold touches her hand.

She looks down, and can’t fight back the grin. Eames is _adorable_ in his second form. With his delicately pointed ears tipped forward and his soft white winter coat, she wants to cuddle him. 

“A fox,” she says, kneeling down and managing to restrain herself from patting him like a dog. “Kitsune, right? I’ve never met a kitsune before.”

Eames looks at her with amused blue eyes – the colour didn’t change, interesting – and licks her cheek before trotting off into the snow, his winter coat blending into the scenery. Ariadne wipes her face and wonders if this is why Eames is so adept at forging. Kitsune are one of the few known races that can take on more than one form, though they are reticent on the particulars. It would make sense that the skill would carry across to the dream.

Eames is gone for nearly half an hour and returns, trotting happily for all the world like a dog in a park. Ariadne has to resist the urge to ruffle his ears. She turns her back politely for him to resume his human form, and when she turns back, he’s wearing his white camouflage gear. 

“Where do the clothes go?” She asks curiously.

“One of the conveniences of dreaming,” Eames says. “I can change without having to worry about what to do with my clothes.” He rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers, getting used to a human body again. “Would you like a turn?”

It takes a moment to realise what he’s suggesting.

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“Go on.” His smile is entirely fox-like. “Live a little.”

Ariadne is tempted, but she’s not entirely sure she can do it without her skin, even in a dream. Then it occurs to her in a blinding inspiration that this might be just the way to communicate something is wrong. If she attempts to change and can’t, Eames will question her, and her inability to answer his questions will make him suspicious. 

That’s supposing she trusts him to help her.

Yusuf hadn’t cared to help her. Cobb had stolen her skin knowing exactly the kind of violation he was performing. Eames, as charming as he is, has an even more expedient view of the world. He might consider this the perfect arrangement – a talented architect who can’t say no, can’t report them to the police, and can even be cheated out of her share of the bounty. 

“No, it’s not a good idea,” she says. “My, ah, my second form – this isn’t a good environment for it.”

“Too cold?” Eames says sympathetically.

“Not enough water.”

“Ahhh.” He looks at her with more interest now. She thinks for an alarming moment he’ll ask what she is, but he doesn’t. They do a few more circles of the base before they hear the music to kick them awake. 

* * *

When she sees Cobb dreaming unattended, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up.  

Ignoring all misgivings about trying to dream-steal information from an expert dream-thief, she plugs herself in and sinks into Cobb’s mind. 

* * *

She’s not surprised by the ocean. That’s expected, with Cobb being water-bound. Water will always be his subconscious.  

Nor is it very surprising to see projections of Mal and two children on the beach with him. They’re partly dressed in soaked clothing, and she can see the glistening scales along Cobb’s and the children’s limbs. This memory must be of a family outing when they had indulged their other side. Mal is not overly different from the last time Ariadne saw her – singers are very close to baseline human – but if Ariadne looks closely, she can see the faintest trace of scales along her ears and the tips of her fingers.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” Cobb tells Ariadne. His voice is harsh and his hands tremble as he brushes sand from them. His scales – not yet withdrawn completely beneath the skin – are oddly beautiful like a tattoo, and Ariadne is suddenly furious. How dare he be able to change. How dare he indulge in what he has taken from her. 

“This doesn’t look like training,” she says coldly.

“I need this.” He has the grace to look defensive. “It keeps her under control.”

“Do you always keep women under control?”

“That’s different.”

When he seems to get lost in the sight of Mal, Ariadne takes her chance and runs to the elevator. She doubts that there’s anything down here except Cobb’s ugly subconscious, which she has about as much wish to visit as a rubbish heap, but if there’s the slightest chance she has to look. 

The hotel room is not what she was expecting at all, nor the Mal who stalks with the silent grace of a predator and rolls accusations off her tongue. (“ _Singers are killers_ ,” Ariadne’s aunt whispers in her memory. “ _They once used sailors to conceive, then feasted on them once they were done. Don’t mistake them for harmless because they have no teeth or claws_.”)

“I don’t want Cobb,” Ariadne says loudly, aware that she’s trying to reason with a broken fragment of subconscious. “He took something from me and I’m trying to get it back. After that, he can stay down here and _rot_ for all I care.”

Mal pauses at that, the frightening blankness of her expression unreadable.

“The skin,” she says like she’s just remembering. “I told him not to take that.”

“You did?”

“That world is not real. He preoccupies himself with figments of imagination.” It’s said with a dismissive flick of the fingers. Ariadne supposes it was too much too hope that Cobb would have a voice of reason, even one so frightening as Mal.

“If you told me where it is,” she tries again. “I could go away forever.”

That earns her a calculating look.

Then, of course, Cobb has to interfere and Mal’s attention switches to him and Ariadne’s chances of finding her skin vanish. 

* * *

When Ariadne wakes, the chokehold of Cobb’s orders about her neck – _“Never enter my dreams without my permission”_ – already fading into acceptance, she knows one thing. 

Cobb is a ticking time bomb.

Mal is dangerous – moreso than anyone realises – and is getting worse. And the others are taking this broken, damaged man with a monster in his subconscious into the dream with them.

Ariadne would not care, aside from a pang of regret for Arthur and Eames, except that if Cobb fails, she will never get her skin back.

“You need to tell Arthur,” she tells him urgently.

“No.”

“Cobb, you need to tell him.” She tries to soothe the impatience of her voice, tries to make her voice reasoning and gentle though what she really wants to do is rip his eyes from his skull. “It’s getting worse. They need to know what they’re getting into.”

“No,” he repeats, and Ariadne knows that any second now he’s going to forbid her to speak of it.

“Then take me with you. You need someone with you who knows what’s happening, and who better than me?”

 _It’s not as if I can tell anyone_ , she doesn’t say. _It’s not as if I have a choice about keeping your secrets._

From the way Cobb looks at her, he probably hears it anyway. But he gives a quick nod of assent. 

* * *

Everything goes wrong, of course.

It’s possible that Fisher has been trained to resist intrusion, but Yusuf tells Ariadne later that he’s never seen such a strong reaction from someone who doesn’t have at least a little supernatural blood. Not much, or Eames would have scented him out, but enough for him take to dreaming too easily for their purposes.  

As Saito lies unconscious and bleeding, Cobb’s secrets start coming out; how they can’t exit the dream, how there is no safety net, only the emptiness of Limbo below them.

It’s rather satisfying to see the expressions of frustration and fear cross Cobb’s face as it becomes clear how trapped they all are. It’s only what Ariadne's been feeling all along. 

* * *

In the warehouse, everyone is yelling. Ariadne is watching, feeling strangely calm and disconnected. If she’s trapped, then so are they. Funny how things not being able to get any worse can make you feel better.  

“What are you smiling at?” Arthur says, a little too sharply.

“Nothing.” She looks at Cobb. “Just thinking about karma.”

She sees that little dart hit home and Cobb snaps:

“Shut up, Ariadne.”

She closes her mouth. Then she suddenly decides: what the hell. If she dies, she’ll just go down to Limbo, the one place that Cobb won’t follow her. If she’s insane when she wakes up for real, that just means she won’t have to deal with Cobb ordering her around. 

She opens her mouth and the noose tightens into a stranglehold. The pressure doesn’t relent this time, attempting to throttle her into submission, but she’s not going to accept this order. She’s _not._

“Ariadne?” Arthur is saying. “Ariadne, what’s wrong?” 

Black spots are appearing and she falls to her knee, knocking over a chair in the process. Fuck Cobb anyway. Fuck him, fuck him, _fuck him_.

The loud voices are suddenly centred around her, sharp and panicked. 

“…iadne, show me where you’re hurt…”

“…she can’t breathe… choking…”

Arthur is the one to roll her onto her back, sticking his fingers into her mouth as he tries to clear her airway of whatever’s choking her. Everything’s going dark but she can taste the salt on his fingertips. His eyes are big and dark and frightened as he calls her name. She thinks distantly that there are worse ways to go than in the arms of a beautiful man.

Then Cobb’s voice cracks out:

“Ariadne, I take it back. You don’t need to be quiet.”

The noose relaxes and air floods Ariadne’s lungs. Air she doesn’t want, because she had almost reached death, and it was nice. Nicer than dealing with Cobb’s bullshit anyway. Her traitorous body sucks the air in anyway, eager to live.

As her senses return, she finds she’s half-cradled in Arthur’s lap. Yusuf is hovering uncertainly near the unconscious Saito while Eames and Cobb are standing over her, Eames startled and worried, Cobb somewhere between guilt and resignation.

“I hate you,” Ariadne chokes out to Cobb. “Let me go, just let me die, you bastard. I’d rather take Limbo than obey another one of your fucking orders.”

Cobb flinches and Eames says sharply:

“Orders?” He looks between her and Cobb. 

“She’s a selkie,” Yusuf says hesitantly. “Cobb has her skin.”

Eames’ expression shifts in understanding, and suddenly his fist flies out, slamming into Cobb’s face.

“You _stupid_ prick,” he grates out as Cobb sprawls on the ground. Ariadne wonders hopefully if she's about to see Cobb get his ass kicked, but then Eames is kneeling down beside her.  He ignores how she flinches from him and scoops her up into his arms. She is ridiculously small, she realizes, cradled against his chest, and the thought is not reassuring. She curls her fingers into his jacket, breathing in his musky fox-like scent and tries to think of nothing at all. 

He must feel her tension, because pats her back like a child he’s trying to soothe. He carries her away from the others, to the small room out back and sets her down on a waiting lawn chair. This is it, she thinks dully. This is it when he looms over, presses her down and...

“I’m going to ask this once,” Eames says. “Did Cobb order you to have sex with him?”

Startled, Ariadne looks up at him.

“Is that a yes?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t – do that.”

“So it’s just for the job then.” Eames presses his knuckles to his forehead. “Christ. What a fucking mess." 

Ariadne sits, tensed, waiting for something to happen. Eames seems to gather himself and pats her ankle.

“We’ll get this sorted,” he says brusquely. “Don’t worry about it.”

She nods, afraid to move or ask questions or do anything that might trigger a reaction. He adds:

“Just to be clear, I’m a kitsune. There are ways… Lets just say I know what it is to be vulnerable.”

He doesn’t look at her as he says it, which is what makes her believe him. She sucks in air, covering her face as the tears start. She’s held herself so tightly together, coming apart fees like relief. He lets her cry on his shoulder. 

* * *

It’s difficult to tell what Arthur thinks, except that when she and Eames return, Cobb has a set of bloody scratches on his face and Arthur is glaring at him. So apparently Arthur isn’t happy with Cobb either, but that could be moral outrage or simple annoyance that Cobb acted so unprofessionally 

“Just tell me Saito doesn’t know anything,” he’s saying.

Cobb’s head jerks in a negative.

“No,” he says. “Saito has no idea that any of us are… that we’re different.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Arthur looks at Ariadne and says with careful politeness: “We could use your help for the next level.”

“Tell me where my skin is and we’ll talk.” Her voice comes out cold. 

Arthur looks at Cobb, who shakes his head.

“No.”

“Cobb,” Arthur says warningly.

“I tell her, she’ll lose all incentive to help us.”

“Because getting lost in Limbo is so attractive?” Eames says. “Seems bloody fair to me.” He’s eyeing Cobb with a flat hostility that’s wiped away all his previous friendliness.

“It’s not about fair. We live, I’ll tell her where it is. We die, she won’t need it anyway.”

“Fuck you, Cobb,” Ariadne says bitterly. “I hope Mal picks your mind apart." 

The ironic curve of his mouth doesn't hide the despair in his eyes. So must a dead men walking look like. 

“You just might get your wish.”

* * *

The next level down, Arthur asks Ariadne to kiss him as a distraction. He’s careful to phrase it as a question and his mouth is a brush of warmth against her own.

“What are the rules?” He asks.

“Rules of what?” 

“The skin. Does it need to be directly within Cobb’s possession, or does he simply need to know where it is?”

It’s difficult to read what Arthur's thinking.

“He needs to have control of where it is,” Ariadne says slowly. “It might even be within someone else’s possession, so long as it was someone he can trust to do as he asks.”

“That’s a shame. I hoped he might be keeping in his luggage.” Arthur stares into the distance, thinking. “I’ll make sure it comes back to you.”

“Thank you,” Ariadne says warily. 

“You don’t trust me do you.”

“No.”

He grimaces.

“I suppose I can’t blame you.”

Later, up in the hotel room, she is only slightly surprised to turn around and find herself looking at a sleek black cat the height of her waist. A panther? Maybe a lynx? She doesn't know enough about cats to tell the species. Arthur-the-cat circles around Cobb in the way of a feline avoiding contact, and bumps his head under Eames’ hand, imperiously demanding a pat. He presses against Ariadne's legs as he walks past, surprisingly heavy for something that moves so gracefully. The silky fur makes a lump form in her throat. 

She likes Arthur, she does. But she can't rely on him to retrieve her skin. If she gets the chance, she'll take it, and she can't promise she won't kick them all the curbside to do it. 

* * *

The next level is an undeniable fuck-up, thanks to Cobb and Mal. But Ariadne’s not giving up this easily. She’s not afraid of Limbo; her worst nightmare has already come true, and after that, very little can frighten her.

Eames doesn’t ask her anything so stupid as “Are you sure?” but his touch is gentle as he inserts the needle.

“One thing,” he says quietly so Cobb can’t hear. “Limbo lies under the conscious mind. The rules are different. There's no defences.”

“So?”

“So the reverse is true as well. Cobb has no power over you down there.”

Ariadne stares up at him.

“How do you know that?”

“I told you, love. My kind have things in common with yours, and I was young and stupid once.” He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Give him hell.”

* * *

Limbo is water. Always water. Deep and vast and _home._  

As Ariadne's human limbs claw toward the surface, she wishes her skin was there so she could change. But then her body is already shifting form, the familiar sensation of her hands webbing and her legs knitting together making her want to weep with relief. She was right; she doesn't need her skin in the dream. 

She slips to the surface to suck in air through her flat brown nose and take a look around. There’s land about a hundred metres in front of her and she ducks back under to swim. She catches a glimpse of sleek silver to her left and isn’t surprised to see Cobb in his other form, the top half superficially human while the lower half is a silver-scaled fish tail. They get to the beach and crawl up onto the sand to change back to human. Ariadne’s clothes form around her in reaction to her wish, perfectly dry. 

She considers the implications of this as they walk through the ruins of Cobb’s city. Cobb barely seems to remember she’s there, so wrapped up in memory and regret.

They find Mal and Fisher at the top of a building. Ariadne stands back as the confrontation carries about between husband and wife, the repulsive truth of Mal’s death rearing its ugly head.

“You violated my mind,” Mal says to Cobb, eyes burning with betrayal. Nothing more than a shadow, and yet Ariadne can’t help be moved by the show of pain.

When Mal’s gaze shifts to Ariadne, it’s strange. Ariadne knows that Mal isn’t real – she _knows_ – but looking at Mal she has the strangest feeling like that there’s a real person looking back at her. It’s an unsettling moment. 

“Your skin is with Miles,” Mal says, and Cobb draws a sharp breath. “He is to meet Cobb at the airport. If you meet him, you can make him give it to you. He was not glad to be part of this.”

Ariadne’s hand does not shake when she aims the gun.

“Thank you,” she tells Mal sincerely, and shoots her. While Cobb is still crying out in horror, Ariadne shoots him as well, coolly putting a bullet through his chest.

She doesn’t wait to see if they’re alive. She shoves Fisher off the balcony, preparing to jump after him. A hand grabs her ankle.

“Ariadne,” Cobb rasps. “Stop.” 

Ariadne waits for the order to take hold, to close over her throat. Nothing happens and she gives him her first real smile all week.

“I’d say go to hell,” she says, kicking his hand away. “But you know what? You can rot down here.”

She steps backwards and flings herself into the void. 

* * *

She wakes on the first level with the van filling with water. Arthur is trying to put an oxygen mask over her face, but it's unnecessary. Water is her home. Besides, she has no intention of sticking around on the upper levels with these men she doesn't quite trust. 

She concentrates and her body changes, turning sleek and furry. 

Arthur doesn’t try to stop her as she slips out of his arms and out the van window. She might love him a little bit for that. 

* * *

When she wakes the plane is coming into land. She remains where she is, tapping her heel on the ground, not looking at any of the others. Cobb is still asleep, and she knows she has to get off the plane before either he wakes or any attention is drawn to him not waking up. She’s not sure what state her actions in Limbo left him.

When the seat-belt sign flicks off she is the first to get up and grab her hand luggage. Robert Fisher gives her an odd look, like he’s trying to recall her from somewhere, but doesn't say anything. 

In the terminal, she has no luggage to collect so she heads straight out for arrivals. A quick scan of the crowd and she spots Miles, carrying a suitcase under one arm. She pushes through the crowd and stops in front of him. 

“Give it to me,” she says, and Miles looks very old and very tired.

“I’m sorry Ariadne,” he says.

“I trusted you.” The hurt she’s been suppressing under panic and anger bubbles up. “I liked you. You were my friend.”

“My grandchildren needed their father.” Miles hands her the suitcase. “The combination is 5-7-4.”

She quickly opens it and relaxes when she sees the brown fur inside, touches it and feels the warmth, the instant yearning as it arcs slightly into her touch. She closes the suitcase and looks at Miles.

“I never want to see you again,” she says coldly. He nods, un-surprised. 

“I understand. Good-bye Ariadne." 

* * *

A week later, Eames sits down opposite her in a café.  

“How are you?” He asks as if resuming a conversation.

Ariadne doesn’t immediately answer. Eames waits patiently as she gets out her token and checks that it falls correctly.

“Fine,” she says once she’s sure she’s not dreaming. She should probably be upset by him tracking her down, but her skin is locked up somewhere even Eames would have trouble getting to. Also, Eames is wearing a woman’s form today, which makes Ariadne feel moderately safer.

“Just fine?” He says. Or _she_ says. Ariadne knows that kitsune are fluid when it comes to gender, and Eames is wearing a short curvy body with manicured nails and long hair pulled softly back from a plain female face that studies Ariadne with careful concern.

Ariadne shrugs.

“I’ll get over it.” She won’t be the first or last of her kind to go through this. From what Eames has hinted at, she’s not even the only one at this table. “How’s Cobb?”

“A vegetable.” Eames says it matter-of-factly, without censure or approval. “When you go for revenge, you go all out.”

“Is Arthur angry?”

“Not at you.” Eames pauses a moment and says delicately: “He and I both wanted to check whether there will be any further reprisals on the horizon.”

“Reprisals?” Ariadne says blandly.

“I know something about your kind, even if Cobb didn’t. Will your family hold us responsible for Cobb’s actions?”

Ariadne picks up her coffee.

“My family is very angry,” she says honestly. “I’ve been clear, however, that you, Arthur and Saito were ignorant of what was going on and I hold none of you responsible.”

“And Yusuf?”

Ariadne sips her coffee and doesn’t answer the question.

“Some of my relatives may try to harass you,” she says. “Tell me if they do, and I’ll make sure it stops.”

“I appreciate that.”

They sit in silence for a moment and Ariadne asks:

“Down in Limbo, when I was talking to Mal, I had the strangest feeling… it was like she wasn’t a projection at all.”

“Ah.” Eames traces circles on the tabletop with a pearlescent, perfect nail. “You know what she was? The real her?”

“Yes. Arthur told me."

“It’s said – though I don’t know how true it was – that her kind's voices weren’t their only talent. They could send out their souls, haunting sailors’ dreams, luring ships to where they nested.”

“Do you think–”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Arthur prefers to think of her at peace.”

Ariadne thinks about this and nods. Better to let the memory of Mal rest, and Cobb with her. They've caused enough pain already.

“What will you do next?” She asks, and Eames shrugs.

“A little of this, a little of that. Arthur may tag along for a while.” Her eyes narrow speculatively. “You could come with us.”

“As a lover?” Ariadne says, not wanting any ambiguities.

“If you like. We both find you quite attractive. But I was thinking we could use an architect. Between the three of us, we have quite the lucrative skill-set.”

Ariadne thinks about it and shakes her head.

“I don’t like dreaming. Even before Cobb did what he did, I didn’t like it. I have too many other vulnerabilities to open myself up to a new one. I don’t know how you do it.”

She’s not surprised when Eames doesn’t answer the subtle query.

“Fair enough, love. Can I have a kiss before I go?”

It’s a joke, but Ariadne laughs and leans across to press her lips chastely to Eames’. Finally she’s managed to surprise the kitsune, who stares at her wide-eyed and licks her lips as if savouring the taste of her.

“Call me if you ever change your mind,” she says, and leaves a plain white business card on the table before disappearing into the pedestrians walking past the café.

Ariadne is smiling as she pockets the card. Perhaps oneday she will call, if only to follow up on Eames’ invitation to bed. She doubts it though. Already the dream world is receding to an old nightmare, the edges beginning to blur as time works its mercy. It seems bizarre that anyone would choose to spend their lives haunting a dream when the real world is right here.

The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and there’s a secluded beach out there that’s calling her name.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the poem 'To Cruel Ocean' by Victor Marie Hugo.


End file.
